


Baywatch in the End Times

by leslielol



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Family, Gen, Past Abuse, Survival
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-10
Updated: 2012-11-10
Packaged: 2017-11-18 08:15:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/558802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leslielol/pseuds/leslielol
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a small cabin in the Georgia backwoods, the survivors sleep, hunt, kill Walkers, masturbate, and bathe. It's a routine in which, however, not everyone shares.</p><p>Post-season2, Pre-season3. Warnings: language, mentions of past abuse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Baywatch in the End Times

“Christ,” Daryl whistled. “Where was you when my flashlight died?”

“Hilarious,” Glenn grinned, flipping Daryl off as he shirked his t-shirt and sank his sheet-pale body into the clear, shallow stream. Maggie was a ways further out, giggling at his slow and tortured descent. It was early March and the water was searingly, blissfully cold. 

It was the same joke Daryl made most times he was on Baywatch, as they’d come to call it. He kept a vigilant eye as others bathed downstream of their modest little set-up. Impressive, too, considering they all fit--one way or another--into the gutted, miniscule hunting cabin at night, sleeping side by side, some with their backs pressed to barricaded doors and drafty corners.

The sleeping arrangements afforded so little privacy that the group had no trouble in unanimously agreeing to the unwritten “buddy system.” A scout was mandatory for bathing (as weapons were not immediately on-hand) and--after a close call for T-Dog--highly encouraged for masturbation sessions (because not everyone could shoot or handle a cleaver with their non-dominant hand). 

The idea was afforded its due mockery--questions were raised regarding the bias Lori and Rick might have for the others’ technique; debate over whether or not T-Dog required two or more scouts got heated (“Like how Congress worked. Does your dick require greater representation? Are you California or Delaware?”); opinions were shared on what kind of time necessitated a scout and who was just showing off; and the whole thing eventually devolved into gender politics. 

“Sexual harassment,” Daryl had corrected, red-faced, after Carol had quickly and loudly offered to watch for him. 

After a few nights of self-enforced celibacy, the rule gained some traction, and soon was just another part of the routine.

The jokes didn’t stop, naturally, and more came with names attached. “Rick doesn’t judge your technique.” “Daryl doesn’t watch.” “Carol always has a clean cloth on hand.” 

Although “Plus One” (“Cockwatch” and “Pussy Patrol” were vetoed quickly) stirred up a great deal of discussion, it was best understood as a matter of levity within the group. In truth, the practice was painless, just one small concession made to avoid certain death. When a Walker was spotted and taken out, no one excused themselves from the service. 

Baywatch, however, took precedence. To Daryl’s growing ire, it was becoming more and more common since the weather was warming up and their little cabin on the river proved relatively safe and Walker-free. 

As accident-free as the winter had been, it was not restful. A big kill or finding a convenience store with some stocked shelves were only blips in long bouts of hunger. Hypervigilance led to excessive sleep deprivation and violent outbursts for some. For others, depression was a constant companion. 

In addition to the incredible sense of hopelessness and fear that came with the loss of the farm, the group was splintering. Anxiety over the worsening weather led to serious discussion over heading north for spring that quickly divided the group. Some latched onto the idea that the freezing temperatures would have slowed down the Walkers--maybe even killed some, “naturally.” T-Dog, for one, ardently believed that the shutting down of the brain could occur even without a clean headshot. Others believed those same elements--heavy snowfall, freezing temperatures--would do more harm to humans than Walkers. 

In the end, Rick vetoed the idea, believing the risk to be too great. “We know this area,” he’d said. “We’re tracking herds. Right now, knowing where they’re at is our best defense. I won’t trade that for guesswork.”

No one had been especially surprised, and the discussions ended there. Unified once more, the group grew stronger and more efficient. Still, there was a great deal of downtime, and when talk turned from geography to Baywatch and Plus One, the group spoke just as dedicatedly to their cause. 

It was just something, each came to realize, that they needed to do to maintain some midicom of humanity. Argue. Tease. Give and give up. 

As winter progressed then began to recede, the growing sense of community was the one stimulant that made any headway in filling the voids left by hunger and fear. 

When Daryl and Rick managed to take down a few rabbits or even a deer, for instance, the cabin was all but silent. During a substantive meal, they sounded as focused as Walkers feeding on a corpse. It was a strangely satisfying sound.

Beth once shared that she used to be a vegetarian. Hershel had smiled sadly at her, and offered her more squirrel jerky, which she eagerly consumed.

It was in the spirit of those causes--satisfied stomachs and eerie silence--that again had Rick and Daryl in pursuit of a deer in the early morning hours. 

It had been spotted over a week ago-- a beautiful doe with no fawn in its company. They’d seen it off and on since then, for six anxiety-filled days, until Daryl nudged Glenn and Rick awake before any light had broken the sky, telling the former curtly, “Keep watch.”

The pair had tracked it almost a mile before Daryl was able to put two arrows in its side. The creature was strong--no surprise, as it had survived the winter, not to mention the apocalypse--and it took off running so fast that the red and white fletching of Daryl’s arrows blurred into a pinkish haze.

The two raced after their prey, following its tracks and, eventually, its bloodtrail. 

“We got it,” Rick assured, his face red and chest heaving. Daryl wasn’t so sure.

“We gonna lose it,” he warned, “If it kamikazis down the ravine.” 

Indeed, the creature was dangerously close to the six-foot drop between the forest ground and the riverbed. 

Rick made an involuntary groaning sound as he watched the creature pace and bounce confusedly nearer and nearer to the cliff front. Six feet was not insurmountable, but they’d no doubt need more hands. Rick did not like for the camp to go unprotected. 

Daryl shared the same concerns, albeit more plainly. Meat the group desperately needed was about to fling itself into the river and succeed in two things: (1) prove difficult or dangerous to drag up and out of the river bank, or (2) it would remain there as the ideal Walker meal, all warm blood and a terrified heart-beat. Daryl made the split-second decision to come at the deer running and tackle the thing to the ground. Rick watched, stupified, as Daryl hurtled into the doe, forcing his mass against hers. 

Daryl gripped the two arrows he’d shot into the stubborn creature and brought it down not far from the river. She thrashed and wheezed as he grunted and swore. He was forced to pull the creature on top of himself and hold it rather than attempting to pin it. Eventually, it came down on Daryl’s midsection, and Daryl threw a leg out and twisted it around the creatures’ back two. Every muscle in its body rebelled against the hold, but Daryl managed long enough for Rick to cut its throat. 

The deer’s last gasping breaths were quickly overshadowed by Daryl and Rick’s astonished self-congratulation--Rick doubled over and Daryl, wide-eyed and grinning like a madman from beneath the doe, slapped the ground with an open palm, victorious.

“Did you see that? Did you fucking see that!”

“Fuck! Fuck, man!” Rick was alternately laughing and swearing. “You insane fuck. Jesus.” 

He pulled as Daryl pushed the bulk of creature off of his person, then wriggled out from under its legs.

A good and necessary kill, to be sure, but also a mess. Daryl’s hold had positioned him directly between the arrows, which had torn through the animal’s flesh and fur in their struggle. Daryl’s head, too, had been awkwardly near the doe’s open throat. He was soaked in the animal’s blood; his shirt was heavy and red, his hair slick, and mud had inundated his trousers during the scuffle on the ground. 

He winced, standing up. 

Rick was on him in an instant. “You okay? Anything broken?”

“Fine,” Daryl assured, batting away the hand that had come to steady him, if needed. “Just knocked the wind outta me.”

Rick clapped him on the shoulder as they took a moment to appreciate a week’s hard work. “That deer gave you worse than any Walker.”

Daryl rolled and tested the shoulder he’d landed on; it was sore, but otherwise he’d emerged unscathed. “Asshole deer best learn not to give this group shit.”

Rick snorted, then peered around for a sturdy tree branch. Daryl tied an old shirtsleeve around the animal’s neck to stay the bleeding, then produced the few scarce lines of rope they’d salvaged from the cabin and knotted the animal’s limbs together. They quickly assembled a makeshift lift so they could carry their kill evenly between them. They weren’t too far from camp, but it made for rough work considering how little each had eaten or slept recently. Adrenaline could only sustain a man so long. 

Daryl and Rick quickly hauled the deer back to camp and were greeted by an impromptu celebration. All eyes were wide as saucers as they settled upon their kill. This, however, only after assurances that neither man was hurt, as very much looked to be the case. Daryl caught Rick’s eye when the initial response to their return had been concern and dread. They were learning the terrible but necessary lessons of the new world. 

It was a phrase T-Dog had once used, early in their winter and before they’d found the cabin.

At the time, Carl had nodded thoughtfully. “That should be in a book,” he complimented.

“What the hell for?” 

Daryl had said that, hunger and weariness painting his every word with harsh and ugly insensitivity. Rick hadn’t appreciated it, and was about to make his feelings very clear when Carl shot back, _“So don’t read it, then.”_

The challenge hung in the air a moment. Daryl huffed out a tired laugh and conceded, “Well hell, Carl.” 

Now, however, no terrible but necessary lesson applied.

“He’s fine,” Rick assured the group. “Dinner required a flying tackle, and Daryl obliged.” 

The group looked satisfied, if a little bemused, and set upon the deer. T-Dog was already throwing out recipe ideas, and deciding what parts could be dried for jerky. 

“You should bathe now,” Maggie advised, eyeing Daryl speculatively. It was nearly noon, so there was plenty of light by which to see the man’s unkempt state. “Sun’ll bake the blood and smell in.”

“S’fine,” Daryl argued, wringing out the hem of his shirt. 

“Not if you’re planning on sleeping in the cabin with the rest of us,” Lori objected, her hand ever-present on her swollen belly. She grinned up at him. “Come on, I’ll Baywatch.”

Daryl shook his head and gestured loosely with his good arm to the deer. “Naw, I gotta skin it.” 

“ _I_ can skin it,” Maggie interjected. “Please, _please_ go bathe!” 

“Sorry dude,” Glenn said, then tossed a small bar of soap at Daryl’s center. “It’s unanimous.” 

“Come on,” Rick laughed. “Quick and painless, I promise.” 

\- 

Rick had seen the scars marring Daryl’s torso and back at the farm. Hershel and Shane, too, and Rick could recall the flash of humiliation across Daryl’s face when they’d stripped him of his shirt to tend to the wound and instead, saw the real damage. 

Hershel even inspected a few, despite Daryl’s raucous protests. 

“Any of these new, son?”

“Yeah, a Walker tanned my hide! Came at me with a belt. I think they’re evolving.” Daryl had spat, then drew up the covers and buried himself in the bed’s fresh sheets. “What the fuck, I thought you was a doctor. _Je-zus._ ” 

Even after months of traveling, living, and surviving together, Rick had never seen the full extent of the abuse. The criss-cross landscape of long scars punctuated by neat, white burns and other, deeper blemishes covered far more than Daryl’s torso. The mottled lines of scars across Daryl’s ass and thighs spoke of routine whippings and painful lacerations. 

“Jesus, Daryl.”

“What?” Daryl asked, forcing some semblance of a grin onto his face. “You ain’t never beat your kid?”

Rick flinched. Daryl ducked his head and hurried into the water. 

“Usually that joke gets a lotta laughs,” Daryl said, drowning in Rick’s silence and scrambling for anything to muddle their conversation, make it less memorable, and dilute the visual. 

“Not my kinda humor,” Rick returned, his voice tight.

“Yeah?” Daryl said easily. “Always figured you for dick jokes, anyway.”

He heard a faint snort from the banks before he was rewarded with the communal soap bar plopping into the water in front of him. Daryl washed and scrubbed vigorously. As often as he was on Baywatch and knew the practice to be sound and safe, there was a reason he wasn’t a regular participant. He could see his crossbow and knife at Rick’s feet, but even then, a little part of Daryl felt as though they were lost forever.

He felt the grime and blood break apart underwater and release its hold on his skin. It was a feeling of cleanliness greater than any he’d ever known--the routine baptisms his father had implemented, least of all. 

Daryl remembered being dragged to various backwoods Baptist churches every so often, usually after he’d done something wrong and had answered for it. Daryl remembered he’d stopped going after some deacon questioned his father about the welts he’d seen on seven-year-old Daryl’s back and stomach. 

Daryl’s father had accused the man of being a pervert and touching Daryl, and that had been the end of that. No more forgiveness. 

Ten years later, Daryl saw the deacon in the frozen foods section of a Winn-Dixie. He’d turned over the man’s cart, called him a pussy, and spent a night at the police station. 

Daryl threw the bar of soap at Rick, nailing him in the back of the knee.

With Rick’s help, Daryl climbed out of the river and was soon, once more, close to his weapons. 

“Shit,” Rick swore, as it dawned on him that his crossbow and knife was _all_ Daryl was standing over. “I forgot a clean set of clothes.” The blank look Daryl gave him had the sheriff fumbling for a solution. “Uh, here--” Rick started at his shirt buttons, and Daryl waved him off.

“Naw,” he said, scooping up his weapons and the pile of clothes so filthy he conceded their loss. “Let’s just go back. You can go on ahead and get me somethin, when we get closer.” 

“Yeah.” Rick pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sorry, man. I shouldn’t have forgotten.”

“Whatever.” He hoisted his crossbow up and across his bare chest, and pretended not to be uneasy with his nudity. “Let’s go, I don’t wanna face Walkers with an extra limb hanging out.”

“Dick joke,” Rick observed, a wry smile lighting his face. “My favorite. How’d you know?”

“I remembered it somehow,” Daryl griped good-naturedly. He held the knotted mass of soiled clothes over himself as they walked back to camp. 

No more than three minutes into their walk, Daryl bristled, feeling eyes on him. “You got somethin’ to say or what?” 

Rick’s mouth disappeared into a thin line. “Your father do all that?”

“Most, yeah.”

“And Merle?”

Daryl was silent a moment before answering, “I think he got his own back. In a way.”

Rick’s eyes ventured from the decades old lines to a lily-white, inch-and-a-half long scar in the fleshy side of Daryl’s right buttox. “Some don’t look so old.”

Daryl stared straight ahead. “My dad didn’t mistake me for a Walker an’ shoot me in the side of the head, if that’s what you’re wondering.” Freeing up one hand, he pointed to one of the uglier, deeper scars across his collarbone. Part of it had always been visible even when Daryl was fully clothed, and Rick had always thought the dark color was a streak of dirt or Walker blood. Instead, he found the scar to indeed be discolored, likely due to lack of treatment and infection. 

“I was sixteen last I saw him,” Daryl said. “Tried to slit my throat, I think. Didn’t have the best aim, my old man.” He grinned, even if Rick couldn’t appreciate why. “Most everything else is--old.” 

“I’ll never understand it,” Rick murmured. “How a father could do that to his son.”

“Well. I don’t think my old man was _likewise conflicted._ ” 

At Rick’s curious expression, Daryl tentatively approached an explanation. 

“Somethin’ a social worker said once.” It wasn’t much in the way of an explanation, so Daryl added, “He was a real cunt.” 

Rick was quiet for a while, thoughtful, and he was finally able to tear his eyes off Daryl’s ripped and battered form. “I worry about Carl. About how he sees me.”

Daryl rolled his shoulders. The cold water had loosened his shoulder some, but for all the good it did, having conversations like these only served to make Daryl feel tense and on guard. He always let Rick talk and tried to engage him, on occasion, because Rick was the sort of man who needed to reaffirm his actions and thoughts, to seek absolution even when Daryl was in no way the person to give it. “He knows you love him. Everyone knows that.” 

“I wouldn’t be this person, though,” Rick considered. “I used to be his hero... not just a year ago, but a lifetime ago. I feel like his platoon leader, now.” He spoke not in a whisper, but his tone was so flat and the words so private, Daryl imagined otherwise. 

“That don’t matter,” he said. “Shit gets rough. You love your boy an’ you don’t hurt him. Carl won the fucking lottery.” Daryl wasn’t speaking in terms of his own situation, and Rick knew that. Both their memories were drawn back to the tiny campsite they’d stumbled upon in early November. A father and son. Best they could put together--and afterwards, all wished they hadn’t--was that the father had been bit, shot his son execution style, then swallowed a bullet of his own. 

“That man an’ his boy--he was a good father. You saw their set up. Kid was dressed good an’ provided for. But you seen what he did. Look what Carl’s got going for him. He’s alive.”

“I think about it sometimes,” Rick confessed, his voice hoarse. There was no twisted grimace on his face to communicate the revulsion he felt for himself. It was so much worse than that, Daryl realized. So much deeper and central to his person. 

It was one of those times Daryl wanted to tell Rick what a good man he was, how much he admired and envied him. Daryl never said these things because usually, the thoughts emerged when Rick was at his lowest, and Daryl didn’t have to words to tell him he trusted Rick implicitly and loved him, a little, for being so aware of his own depravity. 

It didn’t sound much like a compliment when Daryl thought about it.

“I know you do,” Daryl said, turning a little to look Rick square in the eye. “And I ain’t worried a lick for your boy.” 

A succession of screams erupted from the campsite. Rick and Daryl took off even before someone got off the word “ _Walker._ ” They came upon the camp with their weapons ready, and arrived just in time to see Glenn pull his cleaver from the skull of a Walker.

“How many!” Rick shouted, the hatchet he kept on his belt raised to head-level. 

“Three,” Maggie said, her own axe bared. “Came in from the east.”

Daryl ran on, streaking nude into the woods. 

“Is it a herd? Jesus god--Rick! Rick!”

“Get inside, Lori. Carol, Beth, Carl, you too. Hershel, protect them. T-Dog, Maggie--circle the area. Glenn, with me.” 

“Rick!” Daryl hollered. “Two more!” 

Rick started into the woods, but halted and threw an arm in front of Glenn. “Aw, hell--Glenn, get Daryl some clothes, then catch up.”

“What?”

Rick was already off again. “You heard me!”

\- 

Rick and Daryl made quick work of the lingering two Walkers, then spread out to cover the perimeter. 

When Glenn finally found Daryl, it had been close to an hour, and the man was slinking around the woods, naked and nearly completely silent. Glenn jogged up to him. “Hey, Rick said--Oh, shit. What the hell happened to you?”

“Shut the fuck up!” Daryl hissed, twisting his hand into Glenn’s shirt and bringing him to kneel on the ground. They watched something jostle some bushes and overgrowth not thirty feet away. 

When it was revealed to be two squirrels, Glenn huffed a sigh of relief. Daryl took aim.

“Walkers get ahold of the deer?” he whispered.

No sooner had Glenn assured Daryl his and Rick’s hard work would be roasted as planned did he hear the whistle of Daryl’s bow. The two squirrels were skewered, stuck like a Halloween haunted house-style kebab to the base of a small Red Bay tree. 

“Fixin’s,” Daryl said, then leapt from their cover to gather his kill. 

“Wow,” Glenn said, taking in the Jackson Pollock of scar tissue that was Daryl’s backside. Glenn stared at the man for a time, some part of his brain unable to recognize Daryl as much else than a pair of impressive arms and a scowl. Here, he was long and muscular, and uncharacteristically clean, though not unblemished. But--yes, the scowl was still present. 

Squirrels in hand, Daryl stalked back over to Glenn, who stammered an apology. “Sorry. Shit, sorry. Rick sent me. I’ve--your clothes. I’ve got them.” 

“Yer a peach,” Daryl grunted, pressing his crossbow into Glenn’s hands and snatching the small pile of clothes in turn. He was in the underpants and trousers in mere seconds, then drew on the button-down shirt--one of his own, as it lacked sleeves--and fumbled with the buttons. His face was red, but he kept it dropped low, re-buttoning the shirt as they crept through the woods.

“Where’s Rick?” Glenn asked. 

“Went on ahead, said to meet at the river a ways up. Ain’t nothing else out here, though. Five sets of tracks.”

They stepped lightly, but for the last twenty minutes, Daryl informed him, any rustling in the woods was birds, squirrels, and Asians. The five wayward Walkers were all the action they’d see today. 

Glenn ignored him. “That’s weird though, isn’t it? Five, together? Why five and not--not just one, or a whole herd?” 

Daryl returned his knife to its belt and eyed Glenn. “Don’t you see nothing? Their faces.”

“Um, yeah. They’re falling off. It really doesn’t stand out to me anymore.”

“Naw, man. They was all white. And blonde. And, hell--the one you took down was wearing a coat.”

“I took down two,” Glenn corrected.

“Both wearin’ winter coats?”

Glenn racked his brain and answered uncertainly, “I think so...”

“Then it ain’t been roaming around for a year. These are new.”

Glenn balked. “A family of Walkers?”

“S’gotta be. Ages fit. Starved or took themselves out, or somethin.’” 

“Sick.”

“If you say so,” Daryl shrugged. “Let’s get Rick.”

Glenn, Daryl found, was no student of the Rick Grimes School of Concerned Expressions. Instead, Glenn tried his damndest not to look at Daryl, no doubt fearing his face would reveal his piqued curiosity. 

“What’s your problem?”

Words gushed out of Glenn like bad squirrel meat. “Were you in the army? Like, in Iraq or Afghanistan?”

“What? _Hell no._ You think a cowboy sheriff’d be leading this group if I was a soldier?”

“It’s--I saw... I thought maybe you’d been--I don’t know--tortured or--”

Daryl halted in his stomping and whirled around to face the kid. “Goddamn, you’re stupider than you look. Maggie got cataracts or somethin’?” Torture in a foreign country was an absurd presumption, and at least Glenn had the good sense to look mortified. It saved Daryl from feeling the same. The Walker incident had cleared his head of the funk Rick’s worrying stares put him into earlier. He wasn’t about to let Glenn entrap him the same way; he’d give his answer plainly, simply. It might even be worth it, come summer, to shirk his shirt with the rest of them and feel the sun on his skin. 

“My old man,” Daryl explained, finally, then bristled. “You a fish? Stop gaping. You’d think everyone in this group was a fuckin’ Von Trapp fuck. Good lord.”

“My family was poor,” Glenn observed numbly. He didn’t like thinking about whatever might have become of his parents. “No one did anything like _that_ to me.”

“Yeah, well. It was probably goin’ on in the rice paddy field next to yours.”

“Don’t be an asshole.”

“Don’t be _naive._ ” Daryl dropped his crossbow and pulled his shirt over his head. “Ain’t nobody gotta go to Iraq for this, shortround.” He knotted up the shirt and jammed it into his back pocket. 

After coming across Rick a ways up, lingering around the stream that led to their camp, the three made their way back to the group, only two hours later. 

“You lose your shirt?” Rick asked as the cabin came into view.

Daryl jerked his head back, indicating the blue-and-gray striped mass weighing down his trousers. “Naw, I got it.”

They strode into camp and gestured for everyone to lower their weapons; the threat was neutralized. Daryl tossed the squirrels near the deer as he ventured towards the gathered survivors. He met each pair of eyes. 

“S’all clear,” he said, slinging his crossbow over his naked shoulder. It had become a habit of sharing all pertinent information after an attack. Making anyone feel safer was not the intent; whether it was just a single Walker spotting or a herd’s movements, people could arm themselves with awareness just as well as an axe. None wanted to be culpable for a later, preventative attack.

There wasn’t a cloud in the sky as Daryl delivered his impromptu briefing, naked from the waist up. His audience was attentive and his skin was warm. 

“Theirs were the only tracks. Five in all, in from the east. They got winter coats on, so we think they were survivors who starved or opted out. Didn’t see anythin’ in the way of a herd, but we only went out ‘bout three miles.” He gave a short nod to Rick. “We’ll go further tomorrow.”

**Author's Note:**

> My first fanfic in a long time. I'm surprised I kept myself from adding footnotes and citing sources! I hope it was enjoyable.
> 
> Disclaimer: The Walking Dead belongs to AMC and its original creators.
> 
> Edit1: to "blimps" anon: you are a gem and I love you.
> 
> Edit2: Apologies for the many, many typos.


End file.
